The Diessan Path
by Vincalis Ktath
Summary: A tragedy set in the years before the Searing of Ascalon, where a number of individuals from diverse backgrounds are brought together to fight for their cause - or simply their survival.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Diessan Path**_

_A Guild Wars Fanfic_

**_Author's Notes: This is a work in progress which I've been posting on a GW forum for the last 2 months or so. In principle, readers should not need much knowledge of the game to follow and enjoy the story, and if you have any feedback or criticisms then I would welcome them! It is rated 'T' for now, but this is subject to change as the story may contain some descriptions of battle scenes or injuries to characters. There will not be any explicit scenes and I try to keep expletives both in keeping with the setting and infrequent. Enjoy! _**

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_**Chapter 1 – 1050AE, Season of the Scion**_

_Silence_. She couldn't detect a sound; not a single indication of life anywhere. _Please, Dwayna, give me the strength to do this. Give me hope_.

She couldn't see more than about ten feet ahead, or for that matter in any other direction. The fog had closed in some time ago, and it ate up her surroundings with the insatiable appetite that only weather could exude. Nothing but the night could hide the world so completely, and even then starlight could guide a knowledgeable traveller. She couldn't say precisely how long ago the mists had closed in, reducing her world to a hemisphere of swirling grey in the process, because there was no reference to go by. On the other hand, long days did not exist up here among the peaks, so she could guess that dusk was not far off with some expectation of accuracy. _A night spent up here in the fog is not going to be one I relish_, she thought darkly.

Crisp, unbroken snow crunched beneath her leather boots as she battled blindly on in search of something – _anything_ – that could break the monotonous and seemingly endless shroud in which she had been enclosed. True, it was easy enough to _imagine_ the tall, craggy towers of the Shiverpeaks that loomed prominently over her, and the wide snowy valley that formed the trail between them, but with no reference points it was quite possible that she would end up going in circles.

_At least I haven't come across my own footprints yet_, she considered dubiously. _I suppose I should be grateful that the snow isn't deeper; they said that the passes to the south were already blocked. Not that I could have traversed them in any case, under the circumstances_.

She wasn't about to harbour the idea that if the southern passes were blocked then the odds were high that the northern ones would be even more so. She couldn't afford to; they were the only chance she had available to her now. Crossing the mountains here would be the only way that her precious burden could have a future. She _had _to keep going in spite of the worsening weather and the rapidly shortening days. All too frequently flurries of snow had swamped her, forcing her to seek shelter if she could or to simply curl up in the lee of a drift and try to keep warm. At other times, gusts of wind so bitter that they froze her breath on her tongue would sweep down the valley, occasionally strong enough to bring her to a halt, and invariably shocking her to the core even when she was no longer able to feel the cold.

And it was the wind that was assailing her now. She'd stopped shaking a while ago, and a small corner of her mind was fervently trying to tell her that this was not a good thing. Desperation and determination drove her forward though, and the longer she went without listening to the voice the easier it was to ignore. To help, she'd spent some hours reciting a mantra along the lines that the shivering had been no more than a fear of the mountains, and that she had mastered her fear now.

The silence stretched on. Still nothing moved within the small circle of grey that had become her world.

_I'm not afraid. I_ won't _be…_

At least her feet were still able to carry her onwards even when she was no longer sure that she could feel them. Telling herself that if they were working then they were fine, she permitted her mind to meander back into the realms of memory. They weren't pleasant, but they helped to remind her of her purpose and to stiffen her resolve.

_It should have been a dull, dreary day, when not even the uncooperative weather could spoil her mood_. That _was to have been how she came to Kryta, not like_ this. _Not chained, gagged and bound, beaten and bruised from a gruelling week-long haul across the Shiverpeaks as a prisoner of war. And now they were selling her_. Selling _her! A week ago she'd been working on the farm, now most of her family and friends were dead, and she was being traded like a piece of meat to some Krytan nobleman. How had the Guild Wars come to this? What had driven nations to such atrocities? It didn't matter, really. What mattered was that she was being led away from the monsters that had chained her, and was being taken towards a large house not far off. Settled comfortably in the midst of its estate, shining gaily in the morning sun, the scene should have been beautiful. But many things that should have come to pass would not, and her dreams would die here; a slave…_

_…The main landing in the master's house; the wide passage that linked most of the upstairs rooms. She was supposed to be cleaning it, but the ornately woven tapestries of forgotten heroes always managed to distract her. Wielding great blades, armed figures – presumably the masters' ancestors – vanquished terrifying beasts and demons. Her favourite was the one where the girl was chained to the rock as a sacrifice, and the hero was breaking the great iron links with his bare hands. At least she no longer bore the chains herself – it wouldn't do for a respectable man like the master to actually indulge in _slavery_ – but it was understood that they guards around the estate had orders regarding wandering captives. Many of the servants found the landing disturbing and its decorations unnerving, but it was her favourite room in the whole building. A soft cough behind her banished her reverie, and she whirled in surprise to see the master himself standing there. Awkwardly she curtseyed, knowing that neither dallying nor disrespect was tolerated, but the master just smiled in that strange way of his. Involuntarily she blushed in embarrassment as his graceful figure walked past her subservient form and out of sight…_

_…Darkness. The close, comforting darkness of night, and the reassuring presence of the man she was growing to love with his arms around her, holding her close. The warm wash of passion and desire as he whispered sweet promises to her in the darkness, mixed with an intoxicating trace of fear – after all, what if the master's _wife _were to find them like this…_

_…The dim illumination of the kitchens, lit only by the dying fires as the night grew late. Worry and fear etched her face as she glanced around, praying that she remained unobserved. She was late –_ too _late – and she was afraid. How in Dwayna's name could she hide something like this from any of them – from him, or worse his wife – and what would he say when he found out? She'd grown used to the leniencies and privileges her relationship with the master had granted her in recent months, limited as they were, but she knew that he would not react well to her predicament. The stones of the wall above the hearth merely glared coldly back at her as she searched them for answers to question she barely dared ask, and in them she found nothing of sympathy or comfort…_

_…The look in the cook's eyes, calculating and terrible. The distain and the cruel gleam of malice confirmed her worst fears when he asked after her health. He_ knew. _Worse, he knew exactly who the father must be. Her hands went to her abdomen on reflex, and the single raised eyebrow in the cook's face was a testament to the betrayal – by her own instincts. It was only a matter of time now. Unable to face the jeering contempt of the man, she turned to flee, the scene spinning and fading with the memory…_

_…Darkness again. But cold this time, as though it were a cell. In some ways it was, but one of her own making, for she refused to leave. Beyond the wooden door she could hear raised voices; the cultured dulcet tones of her lover a stark counterpoint to the grating whine of the cook. The hissing whisper of her condition slipped ominously through the wooden panels, as did the outraged exclamations of shock and anger from the man whose child she bore. Two sets of heavy footfalls approached the door, and her master demanded that she open it. She had no choices left, and her baby made her ungainly now; her time was not far off, and it was a miracle of the gods that she had not been discovered before. The door creaked in protest as a heavy weight was thrown against it, and she backed away fearfully. The master sounded furious, incoherent with anger and blinded by rage. She was afraid, both for herself and for the child. After all, how much would the man mourn if one of his slaves died? The door burst asunder, and harsh light flooded in. Squinting, she could see no more of him than a silhouette in the doorway, but knew that her figure was inescapably clear. She prayed to Dwayna for deliverance; it was all she had left. The goddess might have heard, she couldn't be sure, for while the next – the _last _– word she heard from him was not announcing her death, it was hardly a declaration of love_.

_Begone_.

_And with that single word all hopes she had of acceptance, however slim and unlikely they might be, were shattered. Her heart was broken, and she could not stay on the estate for another minute. Not even caring that the guards would come after her, she fled past her lover and into the harsh light, determined never to set her eyes upon the man again…_

A sharp gust of wind shattered her ramblings and forced her back into the present. The all-obscuring fog had not yet relented, and the oppressive quiet was still dampening her spirits. She glanced down at the precious bundle in her arms, the most treasured thing in the world. Her son.

_He should have been 'our' son, but it cannot be. His father may be among the most respected men in Kryta, but he will never know his firstborn. I was no more than a dalliance; a slave. And that made you a liability, my precious one. Perhaps it was for the best that you were born in a tavern during our flight east, before the skirmishes through the Shiverpeaks between my captors and my people forced us north. You were a threat to him through no fault of your own, and it is to his detriment that he is blind to what you can become._

Gods, but the child was white. Almost too white, if truth be told, in spite of the fact that she'd given the babe practically more clothing than the ragged threadbare robes she wore herself. If it hadn't been for the thin wisps of vapour rising from his tiny mouth then she might have feared for his life. If anything happened to her baby, then all would have been for naught. She would _not_ permit it.

With a small start, the girl realised that she had in fact been standing still for some time. Fighting the urge to simply rest and let the ever-encroaching weariness overwhelm her, she forcefully drove first one leg forward, then the other, until she was immersed in a rhythm as old as humanity itself.

In fact, she was concentrating upon her feet so much that the newcomer's presence barely registered at first. It was not until the faint outline solidified as the mists drew back from it that she looked up. A good six feet from gaping muzzle to thick tail, the great snow wolf suited its swirling, haunting environment perfectly. Its hackles were raised threateningly, the powerful muscles beneath the shaggy hide rippling with suppressed power that would surge into motion at a moment's notice. Steam curled up from its maw, where razor-sharp fangs – honed to formidable points during its lifetime – glistened with drool and the long tongue licked out in anticipation. Its eyes were the worst though – those yellow, all-seeing orbs of terrifying intelligence and cunning artifice that glinted in the gloom with an intensity that held her immobile before them.

The beast growled. No doggy yap, this was a full-throated, deep sound full of deadly promise and hungry intent. It froze her blood when she thought that cold could no longer touch her, and the girl fervently wished that she could will her feet into action once more. She glanced involuntarily down at the babe in her arms, for whom she had been prepared to give everything.

The child opened its eyes then, and gazed up into its mother's face with innocent acceptance and trusting calm. From the corner of her eye the girl saw the beast twitch, readying itself to strike.

"_Dwayna preserve us_," she whispered, a faint prayer that was stolen away by the bitter air as soon as it reached her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_Steady now. Take it easy. One step at a time._

Hann was in his element. Two hours of absolute self-control and dedicated patience had got him this far, and he was not about to let things get out of hand.

_I must have done this a thousand times, yet even now I feel the same thrill of anticipation that surged through my veins the first time,_ he mused, his brown eyes never straying from their target. _And once again I have reached that perfect moment; the calm before the storm. It is time._

Leaning against the massive pine trunk that concealed him from his quarry, Hann took a moment to focus and to take several deep breaths of the sharp, clean mountain air. His intended victim was still unaware of his presence, facing slightly away and nuzzling the snowy ground in search of any greenery that lurked beneath the gentle blanket of the surface. He would have to cross the thirty strides between them very fast if he was to succeed in this hunt, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd managed the feat. The trick was to measure one's gait, to place one's footfalls just so in order to mask the sound of hurtling murderous intent.

He was downwind, which was one point in his favour. He could close without the creature smelling his presence. It would be a downhill run too, which would help, for there would be less time for the hapless thing to react. He smiled slowly, anticipating the moment to come. Another quick glance around confirmed that they were alone on the slopes, save the mists that were beginning to creep up from the valley below.

_It is time. Now!_

His body surged into motion, legs pumping as he raced between the pines towards his quarry with a grace that belied his huge frame and was clearly a by-product of his lifestyle here among the snowy peaks. _Twenty five feet to go. Still undetected._

Accelerating, he brushed aside all memories of previous hunts and focussed purely on the present. _Twenty feet._ And then the world took a leap sideways.

It has been said that the predominant sound amid the higher reaches of the Shiverpeaks is not a sound at all, but silence. Anyone who spent any length of time here knew that the truth was rather different, however. The loudest sound was the wind, the whispering, icy breath that brought tantalising hints of hunters, of shelter, or of prey. No native to these parts dared to raise their cry above the howl of the bitter air, for several reasons. One of these was the ever-present threat of avalanches, and loud individuals had a tendency to become entombed within the snowy drifts of their own folly. As if this was not sufficiently hazardous in itself, all manner of hungry and opportunistic creatures called the vast range home, and many of them regarded an audible cry for help as directions to an easy meal.

This went some way to explaining Hann's reaction when the resounding and ear-piercing shriek of abject terror shattered the stealthy tranquillity of his hunt and frightened his quarry into flight. Knowing that he was too far away to catch the stag he slowed, his senses straining downhill towards the valley from which the cry had emanated. His first instinct was a far cry from intending to rush to the aid of whoever was in distress. On the contrary, there was nobody he knew who would be so foolish, and his initial reaction was surprise, which rapidly coalesced into a kind of disinterested curiosity.

_Well, the game's long gone by now, so I may as well discover what caused this racket._ Besides, if given the choice between a lowly deer and an unknown yet possibly dangerous adversary, Hann wouldn't think twice about choosing which to take on. There was always another deer, after all.

At a cautious, unhurried pace, Hann began to make his way downhill, weaving between the pine trunks in the direction of the fog-enshrouded valley floor and whatever secrets it hid. Long years of experience had taught him not to hurry downhill when the snows covered hidden obstacles on these treacherous slopes, and there was no need to announce his approach in any case. _Far better to be careful and to know the situation before one charges in._ As the incline became gentler the mists grew dense, so much so that he was barely able to make out the next pine ahead from those adjacent to him. The trees petered out at the base of the slope, but he did not slow his measured, deliberate gait as he headed in the approximate direction of the scream. He was effectively blind now, but it did not worry him. Those who only relied on one of their senses rarely lasted long in these parts. Unafraid, Hann moved steadily on through the feathery touch of the moist wisps, every fibre ready to react at the first sign of life.

Something about the cry had bothered him. It hadn't sounded like the dying squawks of a bird, or the last wail of some animal native to his homeland. It had sounded intelligent, and from the pitch feminine, yet all the women he knew were more than a match for anything the mountains dared to throw at them. Certainly they all knew better than to scream in such an undignified manner.

But he couldn't deny that the voice had sounded almost human, and this worried him. In his limited experience the short, arrogant peoples of the south were far more trouble than they were worth, and worse still the presence of one typically implied that many more were to follow. In that respect, they reminded him of rats, except that rats at least had a well developed sense of self-preservation.

A soft, whuffling sound reached his ears from off to the left, and he bore towards it. Shadows darkened and began to take shape as he neared the source of the commotion, and adrenaline pumped through Hann's body as he readied himself for anything he might find. Slowly now, he moved forward, careful not to disturb those he approached. As the fog drew back slightly in an icy gust, the shadows were revealed and Hann relaxed somewhat. Wryly he thought, _so much for the threatening opponent I had hoped for. It's only a wolf._ For a moment Hann admired the sleek coat and powerful physique of the creature, before his eyes drifted down to its latest meal.

_So it had been a southerner, then, _he noted. Dark stains of red splashed the white ground where it hadn't been churned to expose the black gravel beneath. The body was lying at an odd angle, spread-eagled on the ground, and from the deep indentations around the poor fool's throat it seemed to Hann that the beast had finished her off in pretty short order. _A fool, but not one who suffered for very long._

If the wolf chose to take a lone southerner then it was no real concern of his. _Especially_ if said individual was inept enough to be caught alone in the passes and without even adequate clothing for the climate! His curiosity satiated, Hann, began to draw back carefully so as not to unduly disturb the wolf. _I wonder whether there will be anything left in this valley after all the noise that is worth hunting._

Overhead, a raven's cry cawed out, echoing eerily among the vast peaks above. A black, feathered shadow swooped down from the shrouded skies above to settle upon the corpse with a graceful flutter. As the bird's shadow passed over a small bundle that lay not far from the late traveller, the tiny package stirred and cried out in high high-pitched, faint and infantile wail. _Her babe, although in need of warmth and nourishment from the sounds of it._

Even if Hann were inclined to rescue the child – and to be fair he could hardly blame it for its mother's poor choice of travel arrangements – he knew that there was no way he could reach it before one of the predators before him. And yet as he stood there, neither bird nor beast moved to touch the tiny feeble bundle that was making all the noise. On the contrary, both creatures broke off their feasting and looked directly at _him_.

Brown eyes met golden lupine orbs, and the fiery yellow irises of the raven added their magic. Three hunters, staring into each others souls and devouring all that they found their; assessing one another's worth. The beasts conceded to Hann after an eternal moment, returning to their meal in spite of the continued noise from the infant.

To Hann, the message was as clear as the ice that covered the lakes of his homeland. _The Wolf has deemed the child worthy. The Raven has deemed the child worthy. You have the strength of Bears; you shall be his protector until he is grown._

Shrugging, the giant man strode confidently forward to the bundle, gathered it carefully up in his left hand, and began to walk away with his new charge. He was fairly sure that neither creature would strike him whilst he followed their edicts, and knew that he was a match for their physical manifestations in any case. It was not his place to question the motives of the spirits; they were forces of nature worthy of respect, and for that alone he would do as they asked. He glanced down at the tiny creature in his arms, and wondered whether a mere human could ever win similar recognition among his people.

_It probably couldn't,_ he acknowledged. _Yet if the spirits seek to test me then I shall rise to the challenge._ He grinned in defiance of the bad weather that threatened to weaken the babe even further, and held the bundle close so that it could receive warmth from his body. He had fought terrible foes and bested them, had braved the worst that the Shiverpeaks could throw at him without flinching. _How hard a challenge can a single human child be? I suppose I shall have to name it._

Hann would ensure that the babe lived, in accordance with the will of the spirits. It was the Norn way.

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**_Author's notes: If you've read this far and haven't given up yet, I'd like to know what you think of it before I upload the next few chapters. (Alternatively a google search for the story will bring up my regular posting site, where more has been uploaded.)_**


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